A
grain of wheat will find itself between a rock and a hard place
Miller turning the grindstone, unaware of what the wheat must face
The wheat is moved and pressed and crushed, but will forbear all with grace
And in the end the grindstone wins, of grain there will not be a trace,
Instead the bran mixed with flour will fill the wheat's empty space.
Though wheat is crushed and dead and gone, its given birth to a new race
Just like phoenix from the ashes, flour from dust of wheat in this case.

When in life we find ourselves
caught between a hard place and a rock
And find ourselves facing all odds, and that we are running out of luck
Experience we find is tough, our heads against a brick wall knock;
Finally we fail, crushed, destroyed, inside a room ourselves lock
We should remember the flour then, a new me emerges out of old muck
Transformed, refined, experienced, hold our heads up, continue to walk.

When we are put to death's
grindstone
To dust shall turn our flesh and bone
We shall repay our mortal loan
When our spirit from dust flown,
We'll change our shape, even our tone
A new spirit into our dust blown.